


Tea and Sympathy

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sophie helps Eliot cope with the consequences of an injury</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/)**hc_bingo** and the prompt “head trauma;” set in some indeterminate future

Eliot spat out a curse and slammed his fists against the counter, bowing his head and closing his eyes as a hot wave of angry frustration rolled through him. Fuck, it shouldn’t be this hard! It _wasn’t_ this hard! He’d done this a thousand times before, without ever once having to think about it. Now he had to think through every goddamned step, and even then he always seemed to miss one.  
   
And it didn’t help at all that his headache was ramping up again, throbbing through his skull and filling the holes where memories should be.  
   
He bit out another curse and lifted his head, opening his eyes to stare at the items on the counter before him. Doing his best to ignore the headache, going through the steps methodically _again_ in his mind, he fixed eyes that were reluctant to focus on each item in turn and tried to figure out which one was missing.  
   
 _Tea_ , goddamn it. He was making a pot of tea, and for that he needed–  
   
Tea.  
   
 _Shit._ He lifted a hand to rub at his forehead as the headache throbbed harder. Where did he keep the fucking _tea_?  
   
Sophie sat at the counter and watched through dark, compassionate eyes as Eliot struggled before her, forcibly holding herself back from going to help him. It hurt her – actually, physically _hurt_ her – to see him like this, fighting his way through what once would have come without thought, impeded by his own brain. The doctor overseeing his case insisted that in the three weeks since his injury – a skull fracture and brain contusion from a fight that had ended with him getting thrown off a loading dock onto the pavement below – he’d already shown a remarkable recovery for so relatively short a time. But Dr. Enders hadn’t known Eliot _before_ the injury, hadn’t experienced his quick wit, his grace and speed and perfect control of his body, and so had no real idea just how difficult it was to see _this_ Eliot – slow, clumsy, hesitant, uncertain of himself and his surroundings, frustrated when words or thoughts abruptly deserted him.  
   
Or when, as now, something as simple as making tea became a bewildering puzzle.  
   
Still, as much as she ached to go to him, do this for him, take this indignity from him, she knew she couldn’t. He wouldn’t appreciate it, was trying desperately to claw his way back to normalcy, or some semblance of it, needed to learn for himself how to work through his confusion … and cope with limitations that not even the optimistic Dr. Enders could guarantee weren’t permanent. And as painful as it was to watch, they – _she_ – needed to let him do it.  
   
But there were ways she _could_ help.  
   
“I’ve always thought it remarkable,” she said with a warm tone and an easy smile, “that you are one of the very few American men I’ve ever met who can truly brew a proper pot of tea.”  
   
He looked up and blinked as her words broke into his confusion about the misplaced tea. “What about Nate?” he asked in surprise. “I figured you woulda taught him by now.”  
   
She laughed and waved a hand. “Don’t be silly! His idea of ‘making tea’ is to grab one of those dreadful teabags from his _cupboard_ ,” she gave the word just the slightest emphasis, “toss it into a cup of water and microwave it.” She shuddered dramatically. “It’s an outrage!”  
   
Something clicked in his mind, and he suddenly remembered the step he’d been missing. “Yeah, well,” he turned and went to his cupboard, opening the door and pulling out a tin of the loose tea he kept especially for her, “he’s a coffee man.” He turned back to her and winked. “Hard to lace tea with whiskey.”  
   
She permitted herself a soft sigh of relief as he returned to the counter and went back to preparing the tea, seemingly more relaxed. Had he recognized it, she knew, he would certainly have resented her verbal clue, but she felt no guilt. She knew by now that frustration was his enemy, that trying to _force_ his thoughts only made them more elusive, and that that, in turn, only deepened his frustration, which then led to more confusion … It was a vicious cycle, and she wasn’t about to sit here passively and simply _watch_ while he fell into it.  
   
There was just too much about this they _couldn’t_ help, couldn’t _fix_ , for her not to do what she _could_.  
   
He could feel her gaze upon him as he worked – _fill the kettle, put the kettle on the stove, turn on the gas_ – and wished she’d look away, if only for a minute. He knew better than anyone – felt it every minute of every day – just how _damaged_ he was, how much of himself was missing, and was haunted by the fear that he’d never get it back. He didn’t need – wasn’t sure he could stand – to see that same fear in her eyes. In any of their eyes. Sometimes theirs was the only strength he had, the only _hope_ he had, and if ever he lost that–  
   
Keeping his head bowed just enough to avoid her gaze, he turned carefully, mindful that his balance, like so much else, wasn’t what it ought to be, and moved to the sink, turning on the hot water. _Let it get hot, and fill the pot to warm it._ But when he reached for the teapot, his hand skimmed past where it _should_ have been and into empty space, just one more reminder of the fucked-up connection between his brain and eyes. Between his brain and _everything_. He slumped forward with a dejected, hitching sigh, bracing himself against the counter with one hand and cradling his aching head in the other, suddenly tired almost to the point of dropping.  
   
This was his fucking life now.  
   
Sophie couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She slipped off her stool and went to him at once, taking him into her arms and holding him to her, but saying nothing. As always, when she allowed herself to think about it, she was amazed at how _small_ he was, their ferocious hitter, yet now there seemed even less of him than usual.  
   
In more ways than one.  
   
“I don’t want this to be me,” he murmured at last in a soft and ragged voice.  
   
 “I know,” she answered sadly, simply. What else could she possibly say? Eliot hadn’t simply hit his head, he had _injured his brain_. Dr. Enders had laid out very clearly exactly what that meant, and what the chances of a complete recovery were. Sophie Devereaux might be a grifter, but there were some lies even she wouldn’t tell. Not to a friend.  
   
“You’d think I’d remember it,” he rasped, leaning against her more than he’d like, but unable to help himself. “The fight that left me like this. But there’s nothin’ there.”  
   
She tightened her arms around him, accepting his weight willingly. So many times they’d all depended on _him_ to save _them_ ; now it was their turn. “You went in after Parker,” she said, wanting him to know the why if not the how. They’d already explained it to him several times before, but she’d gladly do it again, and again, as often as he needed to hear it. “Wheeler’s men had her cornered, cut off from any escape. They would have killed her. But you saved her. She’s alive because of you. And because of the files she found, Wheeler’s in federal custody now, with no bail, awaiting trial on human trafficking charges. I hate like bloody hell that it happened the way it did,” she breathed, remembering only too well the terrifying sight of him lying crumpled on the pavement, with Parker wild-eyed and frantic beside him. “But it wasn’t for nothing. We saved lives by taking him down. You saved _Parker’s_ life. And if you never remember anything else, you need to remember that.”  
   
He rested his aching head on her shoulder and closed his eyes, clinging to her for support. And strength. “What if I never get it back?” he whispered, only now voicing the fear that had become his constant nightmare. He knew how much punishment the human body could take, and, alternately, just how fragile it really was. He’d known hitters who’d taken too many hits, had seen the human wreckage his profession produced, and couldn’t imagine living like that. Except now he wasn’t imagining it. “What if I never get _me_ back?”  
   
The kettle began to whistle behind her, but she ignored it for now. Instead, she tipped her head against his and gently stroked his back, trying desperately to believe that wouldn’t happen. They worked against and defeated impossible odds every day; it was what they did. “Then we’ll all work it out together,” she assured him. “All of us.”  
   
“I can’t–” He lifted his head and shook his slightly, swallowing hard. “I can’t … protect y’all like this,” he said hoarsely, the words, that knowledge, hurting almost unbearably. “What if–”  
   
“Ssh,” she whispered, laying a finger over his lips to silence him. “We’ll deal with all that in time, and face whatever happens. For now, though,” she smiled and gently brushed the long hair out of his eyes, “it’s our turn to protect and take care of _you_.”  
   
“Sophie–”  
   
The kettle whistled louder, cutting him off.  
   
She winked and took his hand, tugging him gently forward. “The water’s ready,” she said, “and I’m dying for tea. Someday you _must_ tell me how you learned to make it.”  
   
He let her lift the kettle from the stove – no sense dropping it and scalding them both – and moved to the counter, emptying the warm water from the waiting pot and measuring out the tea. And smiled as a memory surfaced, as clear as it could be.  
   
“There was this cave in Afghanistan, and some English paratroopers …”  
   
 _The End_


End file.
